


Private Life

by ljs



Series: the Power stories [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7752529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a London and a 'verse just a few steps off our own --</p><p>Anthea and Mycroft rely on their private life together. Some days are more trying than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Life

**I don't want to be the British Government any more. MH**

Anthea, deep in a small crisis involving a Russian espionage plot and a Russian murder victim near the top of the Shard, read her Mycroft's text and laughed out loud. Her assistant Tim looked an inquiry, but she shook her head at him.

This, after all, was her private life.

"Try Anoushka one more time," she told Tim, and then walked to a quiet corner of the empty office. A quick check of her tracking app – Mycroft was at home at 3:30 pm on a Friday, which was almost unheard of, rather than in one of his offices or the Diogenes Club – and her amusement dissolved in worry. Quickly: **Darling. Are you all right? A**

His reply was almost immediate. **Perfectly. I shall become an antiquarian bookseller, or possibly an insurance underwriter. MH**

She rolled her eyes, even as she grew more worried. Holmes men were so very much given to over-dramatising, but this was a new script. **Darling, I can come home if you need me. A**

He sent back **No rush. I know you're dealing with that problem caused by friend Vladimir Vladimirovich. I'm fine. MH**

She checked her watch – gold, Swiss, a Christmas gift from Mycroft two years ago – and calculated how long she needed to close this phase of the investigation. **Home in three hours, darling. Don't resign until Monday. A** Then, with a faint smile, **I appreciate your forbearance in not suggesting I look in the office en suite ducts. A**

 **I trained you. No need to repeat myself. MH** And then **I will leave a glass for you, my dear. MH**

"Oh hell, he's opened the Chateau Petrus," she said under her breath. This meant a domestic crisis was indeed underway. 

When she returned to Tim, she showed him the trick of weapon disposal in the ductwork, confirmed through a quick round of phone calls that her hunch about the London arrival of the Trio (Russian agents, assassins, known to be fierce competitors with each other) was correct, and then finally called that sweet Greg Lestrade at the Yard. "Hi," she said without mentioning her name, "I have a partially solved murder case for you."

"I've said a hundred times, Anthea, that it's not my division," he sighed. "But all right."

"You've been well-trained, Greg," she said on a laugh. "Meet me at the usual place in an hour?"

"Why not," he said. The long-suffering sigh was implied.

When she arrived at the coffeehouse three streets over from the Yard, however, the first person she saw was Sherlock. "Do you have work for me?" he said, stirring his coffee with a vengeful air. "Lestrade said there was a little something."

"I did not," Greg said, popping up from behind the Coat and Hair. "He just dropped in and said he was bored." 

Anthea took a few seconds to calculate danger, degree of difficulty, and possible ramifications for international diplomatic incidents before saying, "It's a very little something, Sherlock. We know the victim, the likely motive, and the weapon used, but not which of three possible suspects committed—"

"Here," he said, and held out his phone. "Send me the relevant information." 

"No. Your phone was hacked three times last month, and it's currently unsecure," she said. Over his outraged spluttering, she texted Greg the relevant information and files, then smiled sweetly at her brother-in-all-but-law. "Play nice, Holmes Minor."

"Rude," he snarled, and then grinned at her, and then whirled on Greg to demand information at once. This clearly was her cue to leave.

As she left the coffeehouse, however, John Watson almost ran into her. "Just got an urgent text from Sherlock. What's going on?" he said.

"A lovely excursion to Southwark for you, I would imagine," she said, and kept going.

She'd already dismissed her driver for the night. She could take her favourite walk from here, through St James Park to her and Mycroft's flat. She still had forty-five minutes of her allotted three hours, and even if he were falling apart (possible but unlikely), he wouldn't need her before time. 

She strolled through the gate and into the cool late-summer green, before pausing in the middle of the Blue Bridge. From here she could see the Eye and Whitehall behind the fully leafed trees. The ducks were out in full force, she noted, and smiled. Despite lingering worry, she felt some of the tension of the day draining away into waves and birdcall and green.

Then, still leaning on the railing of the bridge, she made a quick call to her acquaintance Molly Hooper to request her help on the postmortem of the victim (gunshot, yes, but one never knew about poison with these particular villains). She checked her emails and texts – nothing new from Mycroft. She rang the florist two streets over from her flat and requested a bouquet to be ready immediately. to be put on her account. 

And then she took five more minutes of watching the reflections in the water and the ripples of leaves in the wind, thinking of nothing in particular, letting death and complex geopolitical negotiations and worries about her beloved float away.

Only Mycroft knew that she needed these moments of refuge. The two of them sometimes walked down here late at night, to see the city caught in dark water. Those moments, silent as they stood arm in arm, were central parts of their private life.

"Maybe tonight, if all's well," she said under her breath, and then texted him. **Home in 15. A**

A reply at once. **Yes, my dear. MH**

She stood looking at this cryptic response for a few seconds. He was such a complicated man that simplicity was a warning sign – but of what, she didn't know. This was interesting.

After she stowed her phone away, she struck out for home.

Ricardo the florist was standing at the doorway of his exclusive shop when she walked up. "Miss Matheson," he said, with a flourish as he produced the well-wrapped orchids, "as requested. And… that is all I can say."

"Thank you," she said, whilst surreptitiously inspecting him. He was more effusive than usual, which she knew was a tell that he was hiding something. His hands weren't in his pockets, however, so he wasn't lying. "Have a lovely evening, Ricardo."

" _Buena suerte y buenas noches_ ," he said, as he popped back into the shop.

She turned over the possible meanings of those signs during the walk home. Why would she need good luck, indeed. 

When she walked into the foyer of the flat, however, the first thing she saw was an enormous bouquet of crimson and white roses (Ricardo's work: mystery solved) on the eighteenth-century console. Beside the flowers lay a careless spill of an inline diamond bracelet and a card with her name on it penned in Mycroft's elegant hand. She looked closer. _Don't worry, they aren't conflict diamonds,_ it said.

After stowing her briefcase and putting her phone on the hallway charger, she picked up the bracelet and let its cool shimmer flow through her fingers like water. She took a deep breath of the roses' scent. Then, raising her voice only a little, she called, "Darling, I'm home."

"In the study, my dear," was the reply.

He was indeed in the study – in his dressing gown, lying on the leather sofa underneath his bookshelves. She noted bare feet and a half-empty wine glass and half-corked bottle on the floor. "You look very like Sherlock in one of his moods," she said.

"Bite your tongue," he said, and threw his arm over his eyes in an extremely theatrical manner.

She couldn't help but smile, since he couldn't see. After stepping out of her heels, she padded over to the sofa and sat down near his hip. He slid over a few millimetres but didn't remove his arm. She put her hand on his chest, teasing at the white shirt underneath and his warm skin under that. "What could possibly cause this display, darling?"

Catching her hand with his free one, he interlaced their fingers and squeezed. "I had a two-hour post-lunch meeting with the Prime Minister today."

"Oh dear," she said, a laugh underneath her words. Politicians often made him cross.

He moved so he could see her. "Anthea," he said seriously, "the utter gasping _goldfish_ said he wanted to set a referendum to leave Europe."

" _What_?" 

"Exactly. Political strategy, he said. I had to game out the various economic disasters which would result until he saw sense. It was bloody exhausting."

"You prevailed, I trust, darling." It wasn't a question.

"Eventually. But why must I have to deal with these brain-dead fools?"

She traced his frown with her fingers. "Hence, bookseller or insurance underwriter and a bottle of your best vintage."

"Yes." He kissed her fingers, then collapsed back onto the silk cushions. "I'm sick of public life."

"No, you're not," she said. "You're just tired. It will pass."

He scowled at her. "How would you know?"

"Because I've made a study of you. Because I love you." She leaned forward to kiss him. His mouth had opened to protest or respond, so she could taste that delicious wine he'd been necking. She only had a moment to savor, however, because he took control of the kiss even from his supine position, his hand going to her nape and holding her where he wanted.

She had to brace herself against her sudden rush of weakness – the relief and lust so powerful, the love stronger than that. When he let her mouth go, she whispered, "I understand you, Mycroft. And we do have our private life."

It was silent in the study but for the ticking of the long-case clock and their slightly hurried breath. In the silence was affirmation.

Then, releasing his hold on her hand, he put his hands on her shoulders, playing those long fingers of his just along her collarbone. "You are right as ever, my dear. Our private life together is enough to get me through."

"Hence roses and bracelet," she said. "You'd already reached that conclusion." 

He laughed, even as he sent his hands down under her shirt toward her breasts. "Right as ever, again. I'd decided by the second glass." 

Arching into his touch, she echoed his laugh. "And you didn't have a third, did you."

"No. Here, my dear." He shifted position – an invitation for her to lie down on him. He accommodated her easily, with the experience of their years together, and then cheekily lifted his thigh between her legs, pressing into her so that she moaned, just a little –

But she did know him, and managed a dry, "I thought you had a firm policy against sex in here, darling. No carnal knowledge in front of the books."

With his hands he urged her to drop down further onto him and cradle his erection, even while his thigh kept moving. She spread her fingers against Mycroft-warmed silk, rested her cheek against his heart, felt his chuckle throughout her body. "Did I make an exception for frottage?"

"Not that I'm aware," she said, sighing her pleasure. "You're more than welcome to do so, of course."

Laughing, he said, "Look up, my dear." When she did, sliding higher on his body, he kissed her deeply in just the way she liked best. Then, huskily, "Let's not change the rules at this point. Bedroom."

"Bedroom," she agreed, but bit his ear (which, she knew, he loved) before pushing herself up. This move meant grinding down on his cock, just as a matter of physical space –

"Ah fuck it, we'll do it here," he growled, and with his hands spread her legs wide and pulled down her thong.

With a minimum of fumbling she managed to unzip him. He did the rest.

And for ten minutes Anthea didn't think at all, just rode his thrusts, letting death and complex geopolitical negotiations and worries float away in the deep hard ripples of pleasure he gave her. When she came, she closed her eyes and let herself fall. He was with her.

Afterward, they got up. He poured her the promised glass of wine. She changed into her off-duty clothes. He heated soup their housekeeper had made, she put together a salad. They ate in the kitchen by candlelight, with her orchids as a centrepiece.

Only then did she approach her neglected phone. A work matter to take care of, but also a text from Greg: **Oh God.** A text from Sherlock: **More interesting a case than I'd thought. 'Ware the wounded.**

"Something distressing?" Mycroft said from the hallway, his own phone buzzing away in his hand. "I know that frown."

"Sometimes I'm tired of public service," she answered. "But nothing distressing."

"Sherlock seems pleased with what you've given him," he said, and flashed his phone at her. "A conclusion worth working for, my dear. What do I owe you for this familial harmony?"

She gazed at him. His receding hair mussed, bless him; sharp, utterly intelligent eyes; long, elegant body which showed to advantage in his current negligent dressing-gowned lean against the wall. He was as relaxed as he ever was.

"Walk with me in the park tonight, darling, if you're not too tired," she said.

"You've restored me," he said, smiling. "It's a date." 

As she bent her head to her phone again, she breathed in the scent of roses, and smiled. " _Buena suerte y buenas noches_ ," she said. "So we were wished, and so we have."


End file.
